


Hold Your Head Up

by ceann_cinnidh



Series: I Travelled the World (And the Seven Seas) [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Mute Stiles Stilinski, Season/Series 07, The Sanctuary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 22:32:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18040340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceann_cinnidh/pseuds/ceann_cinnidh
Summary: Stiles and Derek and the end of the world. They were lost, and then they were found, and their little piece of happiness was like a glowing candle in the never ending darkness.But all candles burn out.





	1. The Day It Began

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! You are not prepared for what I have in store. The tags are going to be updated as I go, so as not to ruin too much of the story, so always double check them with each update. I'm not expecting anything too triggering though, but just in case you know? Enjoy!

Maggie’s hand in his was slick with sweat. She was barely coherent, wincing under the glare of the spotlight. He looked round at his family, at Derek – God Derek, Derek wasn’t even supposed to be here, he’d just wanted to wake up to Stiles’ face, he should be at Hilltop, why hadn’t he insisted Derek stay at Hilltop? – and he knew in his bones, that they’d be hard pressed to survive this one. The air pulsed and writhed around them, a living tangible thing, buzzing with anticipation. They were surrounded.

-

_Stiles thought he was going to die, because there was Derek Hale. Every fucking organ had lodged itself in his throat and fallen out onto the ground at the same time, the world was spinning yet everything was still, gravity was pressing him into the earth yet he was so weightless he thought might float away entirely. Derek._

_Stiles was probably dead, and sure this might have been a shitty afterlife but he’d suffer through Hell if it meant Derek was there too. He_ had _suffered through Hell, he supposed, and there Derek stood. He looked like he was keeling off to the side – or maybe it was Stiles – but it didn’t matter because as always his feet responded before his brain. Those stupid feet, pushing him forward until he was right there, and falling into Derek Fucking Hale, three thousand miles away at the end of the world._

_-_

He was sure the whistling would kill him before anything else did. Not even the bitter shock of seeing Eugene already there kneeling in front of headlights was a match for just how much that god damn whistling set his teeth on edge. He didn’t know what to do, he had to do something they were surrounded, they couldn’t just die here-

-

_“Stiles?” Daryl asked now they were seated in Barrington House, waiting for the diplomats of the family to work their magic. It rolled around strangely on his accented tongue. “That’s your name?”_

_He nodded his assent, sat tucked between Derek’s bent knees on the floor, offering up his neck for the other man to bury his face in. He patted Derek’s bicep sympathetically, but held the man’s other hand just as tightly in an unrelenting grip. He didn’t see either of them letting go for a while._

_Derek took a few seconds to pull himself together before saying in probably the strongest voice he could muster, “It’s a nickname. I was told his real name was an unpronounceable monstrosity.”_

_“Wait, so you don’t know his real name either?” Abraham grumbled, disbelief colouring his voice from beneath the moustache._

_“Never mattered, even his own dad called him Stiles.” His dad. Just having Derek say ‘his dad’ felt like a breath-stealing punch to the gut, because it proved his dad had really existed. His dad was real once, and he had called him Stiles. Derek must’ve felt the change in his breathing because he surreptitiously squeezed him tighter._

_Abraham sat perched on the window sill – as much as the tank of a man could perch – and Daryl was pacing, in that way that said he really wasn’t happy with the latest developments. If he looked closer, he could see that despite his cool exterior Abraham’s fingers were twitching for his gun as well. That was okay, he supposed. It would take time._

_He curled his face into Derek’s chest, and closed his eyes, and just for a moment he was content to let the world float away._

-

The man had grey hair and a moustache and Stiles would lay his life down defending the fact that Abraham’s ‘tache was better. He had been waiting for them apparently. He had a way about him that reminded Stiles of a lousy opening act at a concert he didn’t really want to be at. He also knew Derek:

“Derek Hale. I am disappointed in you. All the great makings of a saviour, wasted. And for what? There’s no escaping us in the end, I thought your friends at Hilltop would’ve taught you that by now. Damn shame.”

-

_“Hey.”_

_Their breaths mingled in the bedsheets between them as the early morning light tried to break through the curtains. Where the sun touched their skin, it was warm. Their noses just barely brushed against each others’ in the waking of the dawn and outside the Hilltop Colony was beginning to stir._

_Derek didn’t try and push any conversation beyond that light breath of a word. Maybe on his part, he thought it might shatter reality – maybe Derek thought he’d wake up in his bed alone again. But Stiles, Stiles couldn’t bring himself to say anything at all. They were alive. They had made it. Every time he tried to say something, anything, the words choked up in his throat before he could make a sound. He could see in Derek’s eyes all that he needed to know though, just like Derek could see into his own._

-

They were in a semi-circle in front of an RV. His mouth was thick with panic, his heart rabbiting away. Derek was next to him, trying to catch his eye. He didn’t dare look into those pale moons, because he knew what he would see – fear, panic, desperate attempts at comfort – and if he looked, even for a moment, the sea of fear lapping up at him might swallow him whole.

-

_“You’re family, Cal. I would trust you over every single person here,” Rick nodded out to the people of Hilltop, sagely “With my life, and the lives of Judith and Carl too. You knew him before, doesn’t mean you know him now. People change in this world. But I trust you, and if you trust him, we’ll do our best-“ Rick spent a beat or two, searching for the right words before soldiering on, “To give him the opportunity, to earn our trust as well.”_

_Stiles nodded just as solemnly, and leaned his head against Ricks shoulder for a moment before the man ruffled his hair, and went on._

_Stiles breathed, and for the first time in a very long while, his shoulders weren’t as heavy._

-

“We pissin’ our pants yet?”


	2. What's in a Name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this update is later than I expected, but I've been smacked with a whole load of shit to deal with recently so it kind of got in the way - hope you enjoy this update though xx

Stiles didn’t remember much of what had happened. Abraham had said something, but the thwack that followed was the only thing Stiles could hear. Rosita, she was crying like the rest of them and maybe Negan had said something to her, or maybe he hadn’t, but Daryl swung out at him anyway. And then Glenn-

Glenn.

It was all such a blur, and the only thing Stiles knew with certainty was the sound of the bat and skulls, and Ricks sobbing screeching pleads as Carl was laid down in front of him and-

There had been a thumb touching his lip. Negans’.

And then he was being packaged into a van with someone he thought might’ve been Daryl and he was in too much shock to do anything but let the hands grab at him and push him in and lock the door. His mind was too far away to listen to the distant screaming of the very last Hale.

 

-

 

They didn’t speak as the truck shuddered beneath them. Stiles had long since fallen into Daryl’s side and was leaning against his shoulder, but Daryl didn’t look down at him. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything. All Stiles could look at was the dust particles illuminated by the headlights behind them; they made him think of home.

Not of Alexandria, or Derek’s FEMA trailer at Hilltop, or even the Jeep he’d vowed to never abandon. They made him think of Beacon Hills, and the lamp that sat on his dad’s desk and the dust that would float in the halo of its light.

He felt like one of those dust particles. Spinning meaninglessly in the chaos, colliding and falling ever downwards, riding the motions of the air he had no control over. Forever swimming in the ether. His breath was ragged and the truck was damp underneath him, and the tears only began falling again when the truck rumbled to a stop.

Automatically his hand grabbed out for Daryls, and the other man clung to his hand just as tightly, as they were wrenched out of the still vehicle.

“Hey now, is that any way to treat our guests?” Negans voice shot ice down his spine and into his legs. The hand twisted in the back of his shirt dropped, and Stiles was left clinging to Daryl just to make sure he didn’t collapse. The building above them was enormous, grey and imposing, fences deadly, the growling of walkers nearby, but all Stiles could focus on was the sound of footsteps approaching. He felt like a sixteen year old boy again, standing in the school parking lot with a beast of nightmares prowling in the shadows. He felt like a rabbit.

Not for the first time, Stiles was a ghost knocked out of reality.

“Why doesn’t Dwight here take your amiable companion somewhere more comfortable, and you and I can get to know each other?” It wasn’t a question. Negan’s eyes bore into the side of his face as he swung round the back of the truck, leaning against it leisurely.

It didn’t take much effort to tear the two apart – Daryl didn’t put up a fight. He let it happen. Stiles couldn’t really blame him, but alone he felt even more exposed, without his family he felt naked. Daryl was hauled off with the same caution you’d treat a feral dog. Stiles remained where he stood.

“I didn’t get your name sweetheart.” The crunch of skulls still echoed in his ears, drowning out the world around him, only pierced by Negan’s voice. “Another chatterbox, huh? That’s alright. Plenty of time.”

A heavy arm laid across his shoulders, guiding him towards a door, the various Saviours scattering off to park their cars and clean their guns. A few still lingered behind though, following Negan like gracious attendants. It was only then he noticed the baseball bat, smeared in brain splatter. The blood was almost dry.

 

-

 

“Here’s the way it works, sweetheart." Negan began, as he lead him through what he realised was a factory. People parted for him like the dead sea. "You are one fine piece of something, and it would be a damn shame to send you back to that godforsaken shit hole just for you to get bitten or beaten or lose some teeth, so here’s the deal." He was lead up a set of metal stairs, and Negan gestured across it all below as if he was their emperor. Stiles supposed he was. "You get the absolute privilege of staying here, free of charge. Just ‘cause I like those pretty eyes, hm? And you can either stay here with me, where I will protect you, care for you, and keep you as comfortable as you deem fit, or you can take your chances out there. With my men. And I gotta say, some of them are not so friendly. You’ll have to work to survive and I can’t guarantee how long you’ll last.”

The ‘or what?’ lingered on his tongue longer than it ought to, but he didn’t speak it anyway.

“Can you even speak at all, or you just playin’ hard to get?” Stiles shrugged passively, “Okay, okay, I get it. It’s been a tough day for everyone, so why not I show you to a room, and you can just take the night to mull it over.”

 

-

 

He did mull it over. Deeply.

All he could see was Glenn – his warm eyes, his soft smile, his hand on Maggie’s belly. Abraham, chuckling to himself with a fat cigar in his mouth, picking walker guts out from under his nails. He saw Derek. Scowling at him in the woods, knocking his head into the steering wheel, drowning in a pool – but he saw him gaunter, paler, marching down to the Hilltop gates. He saw him smiling too, softly in morning light, gentle and vulnerable. And between them all, he saw himself, straddling Negan’s bloody chest, using his blunt nails, to gouge out his eyes.

 

-

 

The windows to Negan's rooms were slightly ajar, letting the cool breeze in. It raised goose bumps on his skin. Standing in front of the desk made him feel like a naughty school kid being called in to the principal's office; this principal threatened much more sinister consequences.

“So kid. You sticking with me?” Stiles breathed in deeply through his nose, the smell of the outside air settling in his lungs. He nodded a gentle nod, trying to control the sly curl of his lips. The grin that was returned was sharp and vicious, and unashamedly smug. “Well I guess that means I need your name.”

The question drew him short for a moment. It was a simple question with a simple answer, his name was Stiles. Except he hadn’t been Stiles in so long, the name ached, even when it fell from Derek’s lips, even when he thought it in his own mind. It was wrong for Negan to call him Cali, he thought. That was a name given to him by his family, and Negan had already taken so much from them he didn’t deserve this too. What could he say, Mieczyslaw? That was the name his mother gave him. Not even Lydia had known it.

But impatience was growing in Negan’s eyes, and he thought maybe, just maybe, the pain of hearing it from this monsters mouth would keep the fire in him burning.

“Tell me,” he spoke softly, “Your name.”

He lifted his chin to look directly into the eyes of the man he was going to kill, and said without hesitation,

“Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god so I don't know how much I love this one, it will probably be revised later, but let me know what you think anyway in the comments? xx


	3. Split Down the Middle

Derek swayed gently in the cold grey light of the dawn. His knees ached so badly he could cry, but nothing in his body seemed to work anymore – he could not stand up. He had when, they’d shoved Stiles into a dark crate, when Negan had dared to touch his face, he’d lunged at them, fought the grips on his arms like he was feral, even when they began to try and kick him back down, he stood. But they had driven off, and that was all his body could seem to take. So now he knelt, he swayed, and he held his dusty hands close like they knew the answer.

 

He wanted to say it was someone’s hand on his shoulder that broke him from his reverie. Someone stroking his face or calling his name, but the truth was he wasn’t one of these people. They didn’t know him, nor did they particularly trust him, and Derek couldn’t blame them – he didn’t know them either. So while he would’ve liked it to be a gentle touch or a worried word that brought him back to the moment, it wasn’t. Instead it was the cool wind kissing the sweat down his spine.

 

“Rick," his voice tried, “Rick, what do we do?”

 

The two headless corpses glared up at him in disapproval for breaking the silence. The ground was so, so red. The only answer to greet him was the waking of the forest, all too unaware.

 

-

 

He and Laura brought down a deer once. Their parents were away and Peter believed wild young wolves ought to sow their oats, so he hadn’t stopped them from sneaking out. They’d been running through the woods like the hooligans they were when the lone creature sprinted out across their path and the beasts inside of them yelled ‘kill’. They’d torn it to shreds with their bare teeth and claws, gorging themselves, ravaging the bloody carcass like the wolves they were, until they were so full they could hardly fight off the oncoming sleep.

 

The next morning he’d cried.

 

They’d limped their way back to the house and while Laura hid her tears until she was in the shower, Derek simply couldn’t. He’d cried when they awoke next to the hunk of raw bones, he’d cried as they helped each other the many miles home, and he’d cried as Peter gently lowered him into the bath tub to wash away the layers of itching, flaking blood.

 

-

 

He dreamed about it after Glenn and Abraham, safe in the walls of Hilltop with Maggie and Sasha and Jesus dozing as the doctor saw to the baby, like he’d only killed the deer yesterday.

Except when he and Laura went to sink their fangs into the body, he wasn’t eating from a deer, it was Glenn’s head, and when he looked up again it wasn’t Laura grinding the flesh between her teeth, it was Stiles. A stampede of deer burst through the trees, racing all around them close enough to feel their body heat but Stiles, as if he was blind to the chaos around them, still shovelled Glenn’s brain matter into his mouth like a gourmet banquet and Derek called out his name but when he looked up to meet his eyes- they were cloudy and diseased. Dead. He suckled Glenn’s blood from his thumb. A nasty smirk spread across his face, and only when he reached out to offer him a shattered piece of skull, did Derek wake up.

 

-

 

“How is she?”

“Better. She’s not crying, but the tears keep coming anyway. I think she’s in shock.”

“And the baby?”

“Fine for now, but still too soon to tell.”

Derek and Jesus stood sentry outside the medical trailer, warding off the overly curious. The news had spread like wildfire of the two Alexandrians being buried by the wall, and of the other two holed up with the doctor. Under Derek and Jesus’ scrutiny though, the colony carried on about its business, the people not yet daring to come close enough to pry.

“They took Stiles,” He finally breathed, feeling the weight of the unasked question that pressed in from the moment he stepped through the gates, finally lift. Saying it aloud set free the question, but saying it aloud brought down a new weight too. “They took Stiles.”

“Thought you would’ve been after them by now.”

“Me too, but he’d have wanted Maggie to be okay first. Besides, he’s got Daryl to look after him until I get there.”

“They’ve got Daryl?”

“Hm.”

The ‘keep it in your pants, Rovia’ that twinkled in his mind sounded too much like Stiles for his own good. He didn’t think it would be appreciated anyway. They’d lost too much today for crude jokes to mean anything more than painful hollowed words on the wind.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to comment! They really keep me going xx


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